The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

too, was silent. Even though he was sure that somehow the actions of both bird and cane had saved them, Simon was glad they didn’t interfere now. In spite of this, he nodded once in the direction of the bird who cocked his head on one side and folded up his wings.
    When he and Annyeke had recovered themselves, Simon rose and gathered up the shards of broken glass from the beaker he had dropped. Annyeke indicated that he should place them on one side of her work table.
    “I think it’s beyond saving,” he mused. “ I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. And, on the contrary, our glass-workers—the few we have left—are sometimes able to salvage what we do not think possible. If we succeed, no, when we succeed in defeating Gelahn, we’ll need their skills in rebuilding our city again.”
    “True,” he smiled, only hoping that her confidence would be fulfilled, knowing she could sense that doubt in him, too, but would have the grace to say nothing, unlike Johan, who would have had to say something if he had been here. “Would you like another beaker of water now?”
    When Annyeke nodded, Simon poured the drink for her. Together the two of them sat back on the floor, leaning against the work table. The scribe allowed the quietness to settle between them. The future seemed heavy with possibilities and dread; he needed to hold to the present as long as he could, if he could. Closing his eyes, he could see the journey he’d taken to get here. The way through the mountains, his gradual acceptance of his fellow travellers, one of whom had proved to be so very treacherous. Then the terrifying entry to the Kingdom of the Air and the scribe’s violent encounter with the snow-raven, the same bird who had come to him now. Why? He couldn’t begin to answer his own question. After that, the long hot trudge through the desert kingdom and the excruciating loss of Carthen, his young apprentice and friend, the apparent death of Isabella, too, and its effect on Johan. The slow beginnings of a friendship he had no intention of letting go.
    Finally, the voyage over the waters and the entry to Gathandria, the battle with Gelahn and the real death of Isabella. Not forgetting the presence—always in his heart but only in truth at the end of their great travels—of Ralph Tregannon, the Overlord of the Lammas Lands. Gone now, a fact he had no power to change.
    Simon opened his eyes. The snow-raven regarded him with an expression he would have called quizzical if the bird had been a man. He had lived through more than he reckoned on then. He had survived it somehow, and was at least here for what that was worth both to himself and these Gathandrians. Still, it was something.
    He sighed. “Annyeke?”
    “Yes?”
    “If I dare ask what I wanted to before, what do you think is the meaning of the legend you have told me? For me, I mean, and for us all?”
    She smiled and he sensed the gentle withdrawal of her mind from the outskirts of his. He hadn’t even known she was there.
    “The meaning is fortitude,” she said. “No matter the wildness of lust, fortitude is there to encounter and control it, whatever may arise.”
    He thought she would say more, but she was silent. Her words didn’t appear to help him very much, not in ways he could see. Typically Gathandrian then, if Johan was anything to go by.
    Next to him, the mind-cane began to hum. As if driven by instinct and in spite of his fear, Simon reached out and brushed the silver carving at the top with his fingers before pulling away. A moment of inner shock, the feeling of something turning, clicking into place, and then all was as it should be again.
    Annyeke’s eyes were wide and he saw her swallow.
    “So then,” he said, unaware that he’d been intending to speak at all. “So then, when lust appears as it has done today, the fortitude of one who has travelled much must somehow stand against it.”
    He shut his mouth, heart beating fast. Annyeke blinked at him. Not that he could blame her for that. He had no idea why he’d said what he had. Where had it come from?
    “I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I’m tired and I don’t make any sense. Perhaps we should try again another time?”
    “No,” she shook her head. “It makes sense, in a fashion. You touched the cane, Simon, and you spoke.”
    “I know. I don’t understand why…”
    “Hush, it’s all right. The cane didn’t hurt you, did it?”
    He half laughed, though his thoughts